


[insert 'draw me like one of your French girls' joke here]

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Jealous!Enjolras, M/M, Piningjolras, naked art class models
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon further inspection of the classroom he sees Grantaire, familiar battered sketchpad in his lap, staring intently at the model, as if he’s memorizing the shape of his limbs and what is probably the rippling of his abdomen. Grantaire’s pink lips are pursed, and his eyes are blue and focused. Enjolras has seen him look this focused before, probably, but right now no specific examples are coming to mind and there’s a very, very unpleasant feeling rising in Enjolras’s chest and twisting his mouth into a scowl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[insert 'draw me like one of your French girls' joke here]

It’s easy, Enjolras considers, to pretend it’s nothing.

He’s in the art building, where he meets Grantaire every Wednesday after their afternoon classes, and from there they grab dinner together on their way home. They eat, they laugh, they argue—it’s become an important part of his routine, Enjolras has realized, and he even looks forward to it. The whole idea of “Enjolras and Grantaire Wednesday Night Dinners” had been cooked up by the typical brilliance of Combeferre and the standard interference by Courfeyrac. Using their combined talents, they conceived the arrangement on the premise of getting the majority of the yelling and the snarking out of the way so that their Thursday night meetings might actually be  _productive_  for a change. Surprisingly, it was actually working, and Enjolras was finding he could get along well with Grantaire for an hour long period of time. Quite a feat indeed.

Usually Grantaire meets him in front of the art building, because the art building is practically on the way to Enjolras’s favorite stir-fry tofu-and-vegetables place—an establishment that Grantaire still pretends to loathe. But today Grantaire is not in front of the art building, so, ever pro-active, Enjolras has decided to search for his friend inside.

Where he has stumbled upon Grantaire’s drawing class—running over time—visible through the large glass window that is beside the classroom door.

Where Enjolras immediately begins to cough and blush and hastily look away, because there seems to be a naked man in the middle of the classroom.

His first thought, after his initial embarrassment, is that the naked man might be Grantaire, which prompts Enjolras to look again.

(And no, he isn’t going to analyze  _that_  particular impulse.)

The man in the middle of the room is not Grantaire, however. He’s too muscled, too blond. Although, upon further inspection of the classroom—

(And, wow, Enjolras is hoping no one walks by, or glances his way, now that he’s voyeuristically peering inside what must be the naked-man-classroom like a total fucking creep.)

But upon further inspection of the classroom he sees Grantaire, familiar battered sketchpad in his lap, staring intently at the model, as if he’s memorizing the shape of his limbs and what is probably the rippling of his abdomen. Grantaire’s pink lips are pursed, and his eyes are blue and focused. Enjolras has seen him look this focused before, probably, but right now no specific examples are coming to mind and there’s a very, very unpleasant feeling rising in Enjolras’s chest and twisting his mouth into a scowl.

The professor must give a signal of sorts, and the students in the classroom, Grantaire included, start to pack up their sketchpads and pencils.

Enjolras, still scowling—the scowl feels like it might make itself a permanent fixture on his face, actually—stalks out of the building to wait out front.

…..

“Give me a cigarette,” Enjolras demands of Grantaire as soon as he emerges from the art building a few minute later, because Enjolras has completely abandoned his higher-level thinking skills in favor of being a brat. For whatever reason. A reason that probably has something to do with the still-unpleasant pressure in his chest that feels like it is twisting at the organs there.

(Joly would panic and assume Enjolras is dying. But this feels even worse.

Yes, Enjolras is very dramatic when he wants to be.)

“You don’t smoke,” Grantaire says, but passes Enjolras the cigarette he’d been keeping tucked behind his ear. “Need a light?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, just holds the cigarette in his mouth, inhales deep when Grantaire lights it obligingly. The smoke in his lungs doesn’t seem to ease the violent—the violentjealousy—that is there.

They start walking in their usual direction, Grantaire worrying at his lower lip before finally asking: “So what did I do this time?”

“What?” Enjolras exhales a pale plume of smoke.

“Oh come on. I clearly did something. Did I have posters to make that I’ve forgotten about?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” But Enjolras can’t even seem to try to fake a pleasant tone of voice. It comes out dejected and unhappy, and Grantaire snorts with laughter.

“Nice try.” He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, snatches the cigarette from Enjolras and takes a drag for himself. Grantaire wears a smile that bares his teeth but doesn’t reach his eyes—he’s trying to be teasing, but can’t quite manage it. “What have I done?”

“Isawyourartclass,” Enjolras grumbles in a rush, hoping Grantaire will mistake his words for something that is actually logical and makes sense.

Grantaire raises his eyebrows, shifts on his feet, but he is still nowhere as ill at ease as Enjolras feels. “And?”

Enjolras makes a grab for the cigarette—because yeah, that is sure to make everything better—but Grantaire drops it on the ground, crushes it beneath his boot. “And?” Grantaire asks again.

A deep breath to gather his thoughts, to come up with something that  _is actually logical and makes sense, dammit_.

“Perhaps if you spent less time making eye sex with muscular blond models, you would be capable of contributing something useful to things that matter in the real world,” Enjolras hisses before he can stop himself, because in spite of his excellent grades and above-average intelligence—apparently this is the best he’s got.

Grantaire’s face falls and his eyes widen in hurt, for a moment, but then another moment passes and he’s grinning ear-to-ear and his eyes are scrunched up adorably in real, hard laughter. “You think I was ‘making eye sex’ with our figure drawing model?” he manages to gasp out. “Really, Enjolras?”

“Well, you certainly seemed to be appreciating his figure,” Enjolras says, and crosses his arms defensively, trying in vain not to be made to feel foolish.

“So I could draw him.” Grantaire hasn’t stopped chuckling. “It’s a figure drawing class. Sometimes I draw  _figures_.”

“You didn’t need to be staring at the model in such an obscene way!” Enjolras insists, and he feels his face growing hotter as the volume of his voice grows louder. “Objectifying—”

“Oh, don’t you even turn this into a social justice lesson. I was drawing a hot naked guy in class, for class, and I fail to see your problem with it.” Now Grantaire has crossed his arms, too, and he is starting to appear more defiant than amused.

As Enjolras opens his mouth, he knows another nonsensical string of words is about to leave it.

“You could at least draw someone you know instead of some stranger.”

“And how would that be any different?”

“It just would be,” Enjolras mumbles, and the way Grantaire is looking down at him now is so familiar and fond he can hardly stand it (or rather, stand to acknowledge how much he  _likes_  it), and so he turns his gaze to the ground.

“Is this you volunteering?” Grantaire asks, and even though his lips are pulled into a sardonic smirk, there’s uncertainty in his eyes, and this is possibly even more frustrating than when they’re outright yelling at each other.

Enjolras exhales. He clearly needs to get a better handle on the situation, the conversation. Regain some sense of control. In verbal arguments, it’s always good to catch one’s opponent off guard, isn’t it?

So Enjolras smiles back at Grantaire and pretends everything is just fine and dandy. “Yes, it is.”

…..

Back at Grantaire’s apartment—they skipped stopping for dinner—Enjolras is somehow able to continue acting calm and collected. Naked modeling, no big deal. Grantaire staring at him, no big deal. He can do this. He takes deep breaths and pretends this is nothing out of the ordinary, like he strips for his friends all the time.

It’s still something of a game—each waiting for the other to chicken out from embarrassment.

Hint: that’s not happening.

At least he’s is comfortable in his body, he thinks. Objectively, aesthetically, he knows he has nothing to be embarrassed about. He’s a little thin in comparison to the art class model, but he’s seen the guys that Grantaire flirts with at bars—they all tend towards a slighter build.

Not that Grantaire’s type matters. Nope, not at all.

Grantaire settles in his desk chair, swivels to face Enjolras even as he stares pointedly at his sketchbook, instead. “Didn’t know you had such a passion for the arts.”

“The artistic expression of the people is an important aspect of any free society,” Enjolras says, as he kicks off his boxer shorts and settles on the sinking couch.

“Get all your  _Titanic_  jokes out of the way now, if you’ve got them. Though I doubt you’d be caught dead wearing some giant jewel that used to belong to a French king.”

Enjolras watches the blush rise in Grantaire’s cheeks as his eyes finally flick up to look at him. He tries to look relaxed, not like he’s posing or a completely nervous wreck inside. “Well?” he asks haughtily. “Are you going to draw me or not?”

“You sure you want me to draw you?” Grantaire’s eyes roam lazily across Enjolras’s body even as he blushes harder, and Enjolras tries not to feel so appreciated.

“Obviously.”

“Positive? You sure you haven’t just been using this drawing thing as an excuse to get naked in my apartment?” Grantaire looks more unsure than ever, but all Enjolras can focus on is the way he’s got the end of his pencil resting against his lower lip.

“Of course not,” Enjolras huffs, but as self-deluded as he is in regards to his own obliviousness, even  _he_  knows that he doesn’t sound convincing, not even to himself.

“You know, if Courfeyrac were here—”

“We do not tell Courfeyrac about this!” Enjolras all but screeches.

Grantaire grins. “If Courfeyrac were here he would probably make an obnoxious joke about the sky-high levels of sexual tension in the room right now.”

“And then we would threaten him with violence?”

“And then we would threaten him with violence,” Grantaire agrees.

There are a few moments of silence, and Enjolras hesitantly asks: “So does this mean you don’t want to stare at me naked? I mean— _draw me_ —draw me—”

“Enjolras, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He runs his graphite-stained fingers through his hair, sighs. “Come here,” he finally says, in a low voice.

Enjolras feels a slow rise of heat wash over him—it’s far more pleasant than the jealousy of earlier, but at least ten times more terrifying. “No, you—”

“You’re naked on my goddamn couch. I’m not going to come over there like some sort of intimidating creep and—no. You can come over here and kiss me or hit me or whatever this whole charade is for.” Grantaire is being defiant again, as he sets his sketchpad on the floor and crooks an eyebrow at Enjolras.

_Now or never._

“I hate you,” Enjolras says, even as he rises to his feet to stride over to the hated man in question, lean over him, and finally,  _finallyfinally_  tangled his hands in his hair to press their lips together.

Grantaire is unresponsive, for a few relatively scary seconds, and Enjolras is tempted to open his eyes to see the expression of utter shock that must be making an attempt to play out across his face—but then Grantaire is kissing him back, licking at his lips and into his mouth and Enjolras hears a moan and he can’t figure out which one of them it’s coming from.

“I hate you and you’re wearing far too many clothes,” Enjolras whispers against Grantaire’s tongue and teeth as he hauls him up from his chair and slips his hands under his shirt, over smooth skin. He feels Grantaire shudder against him.

“And you aren’t wearing  _any_ ,” Grantaire groans. “Can I—”

“Yes.” And Enjolras pushes himself against Grantaire until he feels the artist touch him with tentative hands—first cupping at his jaw and then sliding lower, against his sides to rest on his bare hips.

…..

(It takes two weeks of exploring one another before Grantaire draws Enjolras properly—and even then they struggle with keeping their hands to themselves.

Not that he’s running on any shortage of Enjolras-themed-art, anyway.)

(Meanwhile, Combeferre and Courfeyrac congratulate one another upon the obvious success of their Wednesday-night-dinner plan.)


End file.
